oneman_onevote | (no subject)

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It's a short, uncomplicated workout that day.

It is, for some reason, a little hard to concentrate, so Havelock comes back a little over half an hour later, damp from swimming (still a novelty for an Ankh-Morpork boy, even a privileged one) and still restless.

He knocks this time before he opens the door.

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Havelock looks generally unruffled.

It may or may not be an accurate representation of what he thinks of this.

"It's direct, I'll give you that."

Puck rolls his eyes and picks a bit of stuffing from the recently eviscerated pillow.

Havelock watches for a moment, and when nothing immediate seems forthcoming, says,

"Is there anything I can do?"

Presumably apart from conveniently expiring.

"I scarcely know."

At another time he might sound flippant, or exasperated. Now there is a note creeping into his voice that he shouldn't like to identify and would be utterly loathe to admit to; it may be something like despair. He hasn't looked up.

"I ask nothing of you, Havelock Vetinari. Nothing in the world."

It's not a pleasant one to hear. Havelock doesn't hear it often and it seems very alien to Puck in particular.

"I know," he replies after a moment, leaning back and stretching. Optimism doesn't come easily to him, yet he feels the urge to try. "But since I don't appear to be dead yet, I shall keep thinking."

There has to be something. And if there is, he decides, he will find it.

Puck laughs at that, softly, some of the tension seeming to drain from him with the sound.

"I don't expect," he murmurs, "that even killing you should cure you of that habit."

A pause, and he crooks a finger in Havelock's direction-- less come hither and more hi?

Havelock takes a moment to regard the crooked finger with something that almost approaches a smile, but does eventually unfold himself casually out of the chair.

"If it turns out so," he says in a conversational tone as he approaches unhurriedly. "I shall complain."

Puck watches him, his smile now something wry and crooked and still a little--

Another soft laugh.

"You should have every right. It would be quite my own negligence."

Havelock has to tilt his head down quite a bit - one of the hazards of being a tall person - by the time he reaches the bed, still examining the uneven smile.

"To have caused me boredom?" he asks lightly, and sits down beside Puck to even out the height difference.

Obviously.

"Yes," Puck says, decisively, turning towards him a little once he so graciously opts to sit.

He appreciates it because he's so short.

Clearly.

"I can think of no worse fate, myself," he adds gravely.

The pause that follows that is an eloquent one, because Havelock's imagination is occasionally too creative. Then he has to concede, even inwardly, that utter boredom really would be quite unbearable. It's not something for which he has either the talent or desire.

"No," he says, gaze sliding sideways just slightly. "Actually, I can't either."

Edited 2009-10-22 22:50 (UTC)

Puck smiles at that, a bright flicker of triumph at the corners of his mouth.

Slowly, he starts to uncurl himself from the gutted pillow-- a process that is both subtler and fluffier than it may sound.

He glances between it and Havelock, and has the good grace to look somewhat embarrassed.

Havelock, for his part, tries his best not to look too amused at the ravaged bedclothes.

He's not quite sure as to what it would be wise to say in this instance, so he opts for placing a gentle hand on the back of Puck's neck as he disentangles himself, and saying nothing for the moment.

Puck's lashes flutter shut for a moment, and he exhales again. His neck is still tense, but less so now.

Then he opens his eyes, and looks up into Havelock's face-- still a little embarrassed, perhaps, or at least rueful.

I'm sorry I consistently get into such cosmic amounts of trouble, he could say.

Or I'm sorry Lilly and the kids are on the run.

I'm sorry I can't think of anything to do.

Instead, he lifts a hand to Havelock's face-- the fingers delicate, the skin smooth despite the old featherlight scars that crisscross it-- and touches his cheek, guiding him down as he leans in and up, for a kiss.

If Puck had something along those lines, perhaps Havelock would...

Well.

Ifs are always rather complicated. Better not to get into them, he thinks.

And raises his other hand to wrap gently around Puck's wrist and keep him close, stroking slowly down his back and back up again as he kisses him, eyes closing.

And there is just-- something-- about familiar fingers traveling familiar paths, that has Puck's breath catching in his throat even as his muscles yield and uncoil under the touch.

They say the fae are slow to change, and this may be a part of why.

Puck tilts his head into the kiss, murmuring or sighing something of little consequence into Havelock's mouth, and wraps his free arm about Havelock's waist the better to pull himself closer, or Havelock closer, or at any rate to bring them closer together.

Havelock can feel the shift, and it eases something, just a little.

Only a little, because this situation is unfortunately difficult. But then again, Havelock does automatically gravitate towards life's knottier problems.

And for the moment, the immediate problem seems to be threading his fingers through Puck's habitually tangled hair - tricky, but not nearly so fraught with danger and uncertainty.

Puck's immediate problem is determining the best way of sliding across Havelock's legs and straddling his lap. It's a complicated procedure, concerned as it is with encouraging Havelock further back onto the bed but not knocking him over (yet), and also with continuing to kiss him.

A pressing issue, to be sure-- but on the whole, it is one Puck prefers to a great deal of others.

It is certainly one that is easier to resolve.

And in a much less verbal manner, which while interesting to them, is probably far less so to any hypothetical observers.

Right?

Edited 2009-10-26 00:06 (UTC)

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